


i know that you don't know (i'm gonna show you)

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [19]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne wakes up and faces the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know that you don't know (i'm gonna show you)

**Author's Note:**

> You guys deserve some more teen J/B before they cut off my internet today. Ch 20 will come from a new computer in a new house in a new state, and hopefully won't take quite as long as this one to post! I'd still really like 2 extra days with this chapter, but . . . restraint. I'm learning it. Sorta.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Isy, who was kind enough to beta so y'all didn't have to wait another week while I tried to find the time to edit.
> 
> Title from Bruno Mars's _Treasure_ , which, thanks to tamjlee, is Jaime's future ringtone for Brienne. :)

Brienne slipped on the silver shoes she’d worn on her date with Jaime. They were faintly rank from dried sweat and less comfortable than her sneakers, but somehow they gave her a courage she sorely needed.

Knowing what else she had to face today, it was almost easy to pick up the phone and dial Sam. She barely stuttered as she apologized in advance for missing the last ballroom lesson, and Sam responded with a cheery, “Oh, I know. Jon’s been grumbling about bad scheduling, but really he’s just mad that Ygritte won’t be at the game.”

“Thanks,” Brienne said as she tucked her hockey gear beside the kitchen door. “Ygritte just needs a partner she can’t ruffle.” She knew Sam would be that partner in Jon’s absence. For all his fears, he was as solid a person as she’d ever met.

Her dad was watching her as she grabbed a Tupperware of fruit from the fridge. She slipped her phone into her back pocket, and he smiled absently.

Brienne knew what he would say before he said it.

“Cotillion’s been good for you, Brienne. You’re less static these days.”

She wondered if he’d support the all the _variety_ in her life if he knew how it had ravaged her. She wondered if he knew how hard happiness was and just hadn’t told her.

“It’s not cotillion,” she said, but the objection lacked its former bite. Cotillion had been almost manageable with Margaery and Sam walling her in, while Mrs. Stark ran interference a level up. But the thought of the impending cotillion ball fostered the dread feathering to life under her ribs.

She wondered briefly if she should ask Jaime, and what he would say if she did.

Her father humored her with a nod. “Whatever it is, it’s good to see you with a life outside of your commitments.”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, rolling the corner of her hockey notes between her thick, freckled fingers. They were spread across the table, scattered from her attempt to study the new strategy, but her eyes followed the lines without seeing.

Her dad contemplated the papers, her silver shoes, the spare chair shoved in a corner they reserved for dinner guests. He cradled his mug and came to sit beside her, and Brienne pinched the thin paper of the diagram hard enough to leave a dent.

“I was at your game that night.”

There was no need to specify which night. The disaster with the Bloody Marys would always be “the game” in Brienne’s mind. Her pulse stuttered at the unexpected topic, but it was meandering normally half a second later.

“I know,” she admitted.

He nodded like he’d already suspected that she did.

“I’m proud of you for that, too, Brienne.”

Rarely did her dad catch her off-guard, but the words hit her like a crosscheck from behind. Her father had spent her childhood frowning at dingy arenas as he dropped his daughter at the curb and escaped into his work. He made one game in ten and never fathomed why she loved it.

Brienne turned, reading his face for a sincerity he never lacked.

“For what?” Her eyes caught on the hockey stick in the corner, worn and loved and pocked from abuse. She could see the grooves from her gloves, knew the exact weight of it in her palm, every catch in the leather grip.

Her dad’s hand covered hers, long and heavy and less broad than Brienne’s. He squeezed reassurance; his thumb caught on the white lines of her knuckles, pressing acceptance into scars fresh and faint.

“For standing up for someone you care about.” She flinched and her dad squeezed again, pushing on. “You know who you are, honey, and you excel. The world can take it or leave it, but they can’t take it _from_ you unless you let them. And you didn’t.”

She shifted, shored by the praise but uncomfortable all the same. It seemed so far from the person she felt like that she couldn’t muster a response.

Her dad had always understood when Brienne lost her words. He shuffled to his feet, took a sip of his tea, gripped her shoulder and released just as quickly. “Play well.” He patted her arm and moved back to the simmering kettle, pouring another mug.

“Have fun on your date tonight.” The words fell from her lips with the ease of practice, and her father nodded absently as she escaped out the kitchen door.

His words were an earworm, burrowed deep in some corner of her brain. _They can’t take it from you unless you let them._ They did little to stifle her queasiness as she pulled into the sophomore lot a good 20 minutes early, but she made them her mantra all the same. _They can’t take it from you unless you let them._

She caught the glare of sunshine on paint, and when she squinted she saw Jaime trudging up from the senior lot with Tyrion in tow. Cersei flounced angrily ahead, sundress snapping around her thighs. Brienne wondered why they were so early. Clearly Cersei had contested every mile.

Anxiety knotted Brienne’s spine, and for once the cheerleader wasn’t the cause. Brienne’s fingers fumbled for her phone. As Jaime’s voice filled her ear, her eyes traced his trek to the sidewalk.

_Either Cersei’s more important than me or she isn’t_.

_Brienne._

Her stomach somersaulted at the maddening ache that morphed the familiar cadence of her name into a plea. Her calming breaths weren’t helping, but Brienne was resolved all the same. She had called Mrs. Stark the night before, feeling stupid and childish but positive no one else would offer better advice. The conversation had been frank and concerned, and Brienne had hung up knowing she couldn’t avoid Jaime any longer.

_“If you can’t stomach the consequences, the poor boy deserves to know.”_

Tyrion said something to his brother and Jaime’s head whipped to the right. His face was distant, indistinct, but she knew without his expression that he saw her. He trained his gaze while Brienne breathed two ragged breaths, then turned and followed his stepsister through the front door.

Her dad’s voice drifted back to her, altered: _He can’t if you don’t let him._

She was still trapped in the thought when Loras’s dark green Subaru swung into the spot beside her. She felt a swell of relief. She had been dreading the slow, lonely climb from the lot; slander would coat her, heavy and unshakeable, by the time she reached the top.

The figure in the passenger seat resolved into a handsome face. Brienne’s calm scattered. She clambered out of her car, yanking her backpack over the console and dragging it behind her as she escaped before Loras could cut his engine. She slid a little on the dewy incline, and the ominous slam of a door hit her from behind, stilling her ascent. Footsteps shuffled up the concrete stairs, and she levered her bag in a firm grip. It wasn’t beyond her current disposition to lob it at Renly like a grenade.

“Brienne,” Loras complained as he caught up to her, parallel on the clean concrete. “Could you be more skittish?”

She looked past the friend, impatient on the sidewalk, to the boy he left behind. Renly moved warily as he vacated the passenger seat and eased toward the trunk for his things.

“Sorry,” she muttered to Loras, inching backwards on the grass.

“You don’t _want_ to face the student body without backup, do you?”

Loras glanced down at Renly, both fond and exasperated, though which emotion which companion instigated Brienne couldn’t say. He tossed his curls as he braved the grass to meet her. Loras leveled a disapproval-laden stare at her bag, still primed and ready to wield, and after a moment’s hesitation she slung it over her shoulder.

“Today will be worse,” he warned as they watched his boyfriend reach the stairs.

“I can take it,” she spoke through her teeth, trying not to wince as Renly paused for half a heartbeat beside them. He pressed onward so quickly she wondered if she imagined it. A moment later her first real friend turned, smiling down at her with a fraction of his usual charisma.

“You’re not obligated to forgive me,” he told Brienne. “But I’ll be running interference.” A wry smile tugged at his lips at the sports terminology. Brienne remembered the nights he’d railed against football until she’d gotten fed up and told him to quit. She remembered the delight in his eyes, as if he’d never entertained the possibility until she offered it to him.

She felt bile in her throat as he returned to his climb, and her heart clenched when he disappeared into the gathering crowd. She couldn’t help but think of Margaery, who’d perpetuated this social disaster, then stood by her through every taunting barb. She thought of Loras, who’d chosen her over his boyfriend a handful of times already.

“He really is sorry, you know.”

Brienne kept silent as she followed Loras up the muddy hill, glad he didn’t press the issue. She expected Margaery to meet them at the top, and the girl didn’t disappoint. What threw Brienne for a loop was the entourage, a hodgepodge mix of cheerleaders, debs, and Starks that never in high school history had run in the same social circles.

“Let’s do this,” Margaery suggested with all the authority of true royalty.

Robb offered Brienne a friendly smile and he and his sister fell in beside her. She couldn’t distinguish everyone as they scattered, but she caught two blazes of hair brighter than the Starks’ and wondered just how Margaery had convinced Ygritte to share a space with Mel.

Her friends didn’t feel like bodyguards. Sansa chattered amiably while her brother added his amused commentary, and they strolled toward Brienne’s homeroom like they didn’t care when they got there or who saw them. But there was no denying their true purpose. Mel strolled casually by after homeroom, a wing and a half from any of her morning classes. And Loras was leaning casually against the door jam—waiting to escort Brienne to Health—half a second before the bell rang.

They had it planned so precisely that Brienne would never have noticed if it hadn’t disrupted her friends’ schedules. The whispers in class dulled under the example of West Eros’ king and queen, but she knew the worst was far from over. Brienne grunted as if struck when a lunch lady sweetly murmured that Jaime was “a cad.” Abandoning her tray without filling it had only served to fuel pity on the woman’s face.

It was halfway through 6th when Brienne found the courage to inch her phone from her pocket and type a quick, guilty message: **_The fence outside the arena at 4._**

She half expected Jaime wouldn’t show— _she_ wouldn’t, if he’d been ignoring her—but when she pulled up to the arena half an hour before warm-ups his car was alone in the lot. She skirted the building with her heart in her throat and determination in every step.

Jaime was leaning against the fence where he’d asked her out, as she’d half hoped he would be. She’d thought the sight might encourage her, but it only sent her pulse fluttering.

“So,” he greeted as she halted in front of him, too agitated to lean against the sagging chain links.

“So,” Brienne echoed, forcing past the heaviness in her throat. Her eyes traced Jaime’s face, impassive and expectant and attractive as ever. She curled her toes in her silver shoes and felt a thrill as her body remembered the last time she’d done that. “I’m sorry,” she met his eyes. It seemed as good a start as any.

“I got that,” he said, though she’d never told him.

“Tyrion – “ she began, but stopped at the twist of Jaime’s mouth.

“Sorry about that.” He didn’t sound sorry, but then, she didn’t really blame him. “My brother rarely consults me before jabbing his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Oh.” Brienne wondered where all her words had gone. She’d spent the morning gathering them as carefully as she used to harvest shells with her father on the shore. Her thoughts washed away just as easily, tugged out into the sea of Jaime’s eyes. “I –“ She took a deep breath, exhaled. “Do you really think – it will be easier? Together?”

“Well it certainly can’t get any _harder_.” He crossed his arm over his cast and stared her down.

_Not for me_ , she didn’t say.

Jaime’s shoulders tensed, but he tossed his words at her.

“I’m on your side.”

“I know.” She twisted her hands, watching the color bleed back into the lines she left behind.

Jaime sighed. Brienne wondered if he still thought she was worth it.

They stood in taut, awkward silence, listening to the rumble of the Zamboni stuttering to life inside the rink.

Jaime shook his head and stood, and a stab of panic shot through her. But he only said, “Go kick Essos ass. And next time, maybe schedule our DTR sometime sane.”

She didn’t have time to ask for an explanation before he disappeared. The thud of the arena door echoed through the cinderblock, and the squeal of tires whipped across the asphalt, announcing the arrival of the first wave of players. She trudged back to her car for her gear, unable to decide if she was relieved that Jaime had ended her inept apology, or more keyed up than ever.

She’d barely given a thought to the other team, but familiar faces greeted her from the opposing bench. Essos wasn’t a school, but an indoor league that had outgrown their current competition. When it became clear that WEH wouldn’t make finals, Coach Selmy had arranged the game to test next year’s lineup. Some second stringers were mixed into the lines, a mock tryout that Brienne didn’t envy. Arya had joined first line, a spitfire in place of Jaime’s finesse, and Brienne knew she’d have to struggle to keep the offense together while Loras and Arya competed for center.

As Brienne waited for puck drop, she wondered if it were possible to hate a team as much as she hated the Bloody Marys. For all that Hoat had done, she felt little better facing Essos. Jon Stark was the only member of the offense who didn’t make her want to cringe. Beside him skated Ben, one of Kyle’s basketball teammates who was louder than his friend and almost as cruel. But it was Ron she avoided, nursing a tightness in the pit of her stomach that spoke of insecurity and humiliation and a burning anger that never really went away. Ron had bailed on WEH to join his cousin’s team sometime after Jaime had laid him out in practice. Her failed first date had gotten the star spot and no scouts to show for it.

Brienne chanced a glance at the crowd and found Jaime almost without trying. His father had finally ousted him from the team’s box, but he sat two rows up, close enough to shout direction as his former teammates piled on and off the ice. His expression was grim as her eyes caught his, but she had no idea what he was thinking.

“Brienne the Beauty.”

She heard Jon hiss a rebuke, but Ron was unfazed. She wasn’t sure if it was anger or shame that burned her face beneath her mask.

“Red Ron,” she bit back, enjoying the way his expression wavered.

The ref skated forward before he could answer, and Loras and Arya stopped vying for center as she skated up to face Ron. She let his smirk burrow into her stomach and rile her. The muscles in her calves tensed, setting off a chain reaction up her leg and through her torso. When she touched her stick to the ice, the crack of it was like a gun spurring a hunting dog.

“I always thought you were a cow,” Ron grinned, like they were old friends sharing a joke over milkshakes. “Turns out you’re a wildcat.”

His head drifted deliberately to her left; he could only be looking at Jaime.

Brienne jerked her stick, catching the puck as it fell and rocketing away before he could refocus. She heard Arya snicker behind her, and even Jon was grinning as he dove toward her to steal the puck away. She flicked it to her left, out of his reach. But her front line hadn’t practiced in their current configuration, and Loras wasn’t where she thought he’d be. Ben had the puck before she could chase it, and when he scored he turned to Brienne with the same perverse bliss that he’d mocked her with a day before.

Brienne skated back to the box seething. She didn’t let her eyes stray to the crowd, or the familiar faces on the bench. She gripped her stick hard, forced the anger from her head to her muscles, and sat ready to spring.

The next time she faced Ben, she was gratified by his sudden alarm when Jon skated aside to let her check him. The look on Ron’s face was less arrogant than before as his teammate wobbled on the ice, groaning as he tried to stay upright. Brienne was usually content to block as her teammates scored, but the buzz of that goal felt like victory.

Essos had a few good players, but it was clear they were a mediocre team. Coach Selmy was prepping next year’s strategy, giving rookies playing time whenever West Eros pulled ahead, and it was niggling under the other team’s jerseys. Jaime’s cousin Joffrey had lost two goals soundly, and the disdain on his face when Coach called, “Tarth, fix this,” was only matched by the distaste on Ron’s when she snatched the puck away.

He buried his shoulder under her arm, trying to rock her iron grip on her stick. Brienne set her boots firmly, scanning for an open teammate as Ron exhausted his energy.

“I’m bringing a camera to cotillion,” he wheezed, hot breath fogging up her face shield. “Kyle’s banned, but Ben says he’s – just – _dying_ to see you rip your dress.” He laughed softly, breathlessly, and the sound crawled up Brienne’s spine. “I know how you love to be on camera.”

Ron was already moving, using her reflexive wince to slip his stick under hers and hook the puck.

Anger flashed, drowning her gurgling queasiness. Her ankle turned of its own accord, her right knee bent, and she was twisting in a sharp arc that felt too graceful for her bulky body, more reminiscent of figure skating than of hockey. Her chest ached at the familiar motion, but she didn’t let thoughts of Jaime distract her while she caught the puck away and passed to Arya.

Ron stayed on her while Arya dodged Jon with the familiarity of siblings. Ben bore her down, using his size against her, but Loras ran interference, and the girl managed to ricochet the puck off the boards and back to Brienne. Ron was smaller than Brienne, but from his strategy she’d never know it. He attempted brute force, checking her hard, and got an elbow to the ribs for his troubles. But then Ben was there, blocking her in, and Brienne had to move fast to get the puck to Loras, who was half distracted by Arya’s familial tussle with Jon across the ice.

“Head in the game, prettyboy!” Jaime shouted over Selmy’s complaints, and Loras obeyed as he never would have off the ice.

Brienne darted around Ben, blocking his path. She kept him close to the boards, away from her teammates as they passed rubber back and forth, waiting for an opening. Jon zipped between them, just missing the puck, and Brienne was reminded of toddling games of Monkey in the Middle before her mother died.

She caught sight of a flash of brown, a spindly arm two rows up, and waved a red glove in Pod’s direction. He was with a new foster family, one that seemed more open to his hopes of making WEH’s team during Brienne’s senior year.

She felt her skates leave the ice before she felt the stick sweep under them. Her helmet hit hard, first glass and then ice, and Ron’s voice rung in her ears as he argued that it was an accident. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself upright before anyone could question her mobility. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hurting her, and she wouldn’t give Pod the fear that it was his fault.

The board flashed _power play_ and Selmy shouted, “Off the damn ice, Tarth.”

A ref hauled her to her feet and she dug in her skates, but when Loras and Arya pulled her to the box she didn’t fight them. A hodgepodge line of freshman and Cleganes piled onto the ice, and from the look Sandor shot her she knew another injury was imminent.

The rest of the game felt personal, whether she was tearing up the ice or watching her teammates take up for her. Brienne scored the final goal, darting backwards as Ben and Ron closed, manipulating her skates with a dexterity that sent them colliding into each other. She slapped the puck with vindictive force, and the goalie sprawled trying to stop it. But in the end both boys jeered at her, and the thrill of victory wore thin.

_I’ll never win with guys like them_ , she realized. But her teammates were clapping her on the back, Sandor and Loras and a dozen hands she never saw, and Arya had jabbed Joffrey hard in the ribs for making a rude comment about her nonexistent femininity.

She found Jaime, or Jaime found her; she couldn’t really tell in the throng of spectators, the rush of players heading to the locker room.

His smile was all congratulations, tempered with flecks of grey frustration in the green of his eyes.

Brienne was wrapped up in her aching head, the rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of Essos’s defeat.

“Want to post-game at King’s Landing?” she asked, not allowing herself a breath to rethink the offer, “With me?”

“Seriously? That sounds miserable.”

Her heart dropped low, clattering along the bones of her ribs, even as she saw pleasure pushing his smile and knew his words weren’t what they seemed.

She ripped off her helmet, tore fingers through her sweaty, tangled hair, refusing to consider how unkempt she must look. The sharp tugs on her scalp were grounding; the pain gave her something other than Jaime to focus on.

He watched her for a moment, waiting for her to get it, and when he got tired of waiting he cocked his head.

“Seriously, Brienne. _King’s Landing_? Who _won’t_ be there?”

The thrum of her pulse had lent strength to the idea: standing beside Jaime and daring the world to mock them for it. But they would, she realized. They always would.

“Us,” she conceded, tracing the beads of condensation on the mask in her hands. And then there were three hands on her helmet, and Jaime looked almost tentative as he tugged her fingers free and into his.

_He’s holding my hand_. Brienne could barely grasp the thought as her helmet tumbled from the one she had left to her. It seemed silly, after everything, but that little realization warmed Brienne’s cheeks and set her heart off its rhythm.

She caught her helmet by the strap as it bounced off the bleachers. Jaime laced his fingers through hers and didn’t let go.

“I know a place,” he said vaguely, and Brienne focused on frowning at him so she couldn’t hear the whispers around them.

“A food place?” she asked suspiciously.

He inclined his head all of an inch, lips twitching as she badgered him. It wasn’t until she was sitting in his passenger seat that she realized Jaime had distracted her with a game of twenty questions she hadn’t even known she was playing. They had safely navigated the rubberneckers, but Brienne was left to dump her pads in the backseat, hoping Jaime didn’t mind that she reeked of ice and sweat. It was really his fault that she hadn’t showered.

The grill Jaime found was unassuming and deserted, which suited Brienne just fine. Caught up in camaraderie and easy fondness, the evening was gone before she thought to check her watch.

By the time they made it back to the arena, her Toyota was the only car in the lot. He parked fifteen spaces away, but her protest faltered when he cut the engine to walk her to her car. She could feel his skin, pressing through clothes and air and pads slung over her shoulder to feather along her flesh. She felt lighter than she had in ages, and for a second Selmy’s voice was in her head, lecturing about the dangers of head injuries.

She fumbled her keys in the door. Sansa hadn’t briefed her about the protocols of an impromptu date, and she found herself at a loss: standing in a street-lit parking lot, with Jaime smelling of aftershave and her stale with sweat.

Jaime tugged at her wrist, turning her into him. His fingers didn’t quite meet, and Brienne focused on that instead of the way it made her want to dive into him.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, fighting the urge to reclaim her arm.

He must have noticed because he dropped it. Brienne pulled her arm to her side and covered it with a large hand. Goosebumps had erupted across her skin. Brienne shivered.

The faintest bit of indecision marred the skin over Jaime’s cheekbones, and he masked it with indifference.

She filled her lungs with courage and looked at him without flinching. “I – thanks.”

“So you said.” He shot her an unimpressed look, but a smile crept up his face.

Brienne was suddenly back to another night, when life seemed simpler somehow: the first, clumsy press of her lips against his, the balmy night with its light-polluted stars, the high of _The Seven Kingdoms_ still making her giddy.

She fisted the tattered mess of her sports bag and cleared her throat.

“I’m calling you,” Jaime warned, raising a brow.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” she protested.

Her brain processed how that must have sounded and Brienne bit her lip, scrounging for patch she couldn’t find.

Jaime shrugged infinitesimally, hitched his smile higher.

“You could call me,” he said casually, teasing. Brienne barely caught the waver of uncertainty beneath his tone.

“Okay.”

She couldn’t help her shy smile when Jaime’s eyes brightened. The green seemed to lure her forward, a soundless siren’s call.

Brienne planted her feet and resisted. Saturday night still needled her heart, enchantment and tension and skin bleeding together under Cersei’s bitter stare.

“Are – are we dating now?” The question took all the courage she possessed, and some she was sure she’d stolen from Jaime.

 “If you want.” He bit his smile, teeth pulling wet trails through laughing affection, and suddenly Brienne wanted nothing more than to taste it, too.

She battled the desire with a fierceness that surpassed any marshaled for any game she’d ever played. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she kissed Jaime now, but she knew she it would domino into tomorrow and next week and next year, rippling beyond the dim-lit parking lot with unstoppable force.

“I want – ” she whispered, and then she didn’t have to worry about kissing him, because Jaime leaned forward and she met him halfway.

It had none of the raw heat that had overwhelmed her before. Jaime kissed her softly, a brief, open press of his mouth, another when he couldn’t quite pull away. Brienne accepted his affection gladly, and when he drifted away and she let her lips brush his jaw; she couldn’t really explain why.

Jaime shoved his hands in his pockets as he stepped away. Nerves gnawed at her, but his smile banished them to some dark corner of her being.

“’Night, Brienne.”

She wondered how different the world would look in the morning. She wondered if harsh shade would dim the light in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Jaime.”

She ducked into her car, chewing her lip as he strolled across the darkness to his SUV.

_You could call me_ , he’d said, and she’d agreed. The thought roused more panic than excitement, causing Brienne’s hands to shake on the wheel. She shifted back into park before she’d even backed out of her space. Her muscles caged her in her seat.

_He can’t if you don’t let him._

Brienne slid her phone from her pocked and dialed.

She had never heard the particular combination of amused and incredulous that pervaded Jaime’s “hello.” She watched the glow of his iPhone illuminate his face as he fumbled with his keys and turned down the stereo.

“I would have chickened out,” she admitted, feeling embarrassed.

Jaime stilled in his seat, and Brienne’s heart pounded. A long silence later, he turned and met her gaze. Brienne blushed, her instincts unfazed by the dark street and tinted glass between them.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. So much happened this chapter, I know. But Isy assured me it wasn't crazy rushed (yes, I know, 19 chapters in . . .), so hopefully it's alright. 
> 
> Please take a moment and leave some feedback. I really can't tell you guys how much I cherish each and every comment.


End file.
